


In the Heart of Infinity

by jbird181



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Cars, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, Kissing in cars, Lack of Communication, M/M, Nighttime, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbird181/pseuds/jbird181
Summary: Ronan Lynch is pretty like Lucifer. He has the bitter smile of a fallen angel who had once been God's favorite. Oh, how he has fallen from grace.If Ronan is a fallen angel, Kavinsky is a demon, tempting, inviting.They’re the same, in more ways than one.





	In the Heart of Infinity

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from [Les Etoiles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3vgqpDMomI). It's a beautiful song about the brevity of life. The last lines translate to "everything is fleeting."

There was something about the night that was simultaneously too similar and too unlike a dream. It made Ronan feel restless, powerful, invincible. His nights were spent on the streets, racing, drinking, worrying Gansey. Gansey had no place here, in the shadows. Gansey was so inherently good it was blinding sometimes. But Ronan was still drawn to his flame. If he wasn't careful, Gansey’d have him waxing poetic.

 

Ronan enjoyed racing, of course, and drinking, although not so much the worrying Gansey, which was inevitable (not now, he doesn't want to think about him now), but on some nights when the insomnia is particularly bad, on perfect summer nights like these, the air fresh and alive, the cicadas singing, the grass cool on his bare feet but the sidewalk still warm from the sun, he walks.

 

He never has anywhere in particular in mind. Ronan just walks. It helps clear his mind, knock all of the spiderwebs out of barn corners with the handle of a shovel until it feels like he’s the only person in the world. Then he turns around.

 

It’s when he’s strolling back to Monmouth that a white Mitsubishi pulls up next to him, its roaring engine having given itself away half a mile ago. Ronan should keep walking.

 

He stops.

 

“Get in, Lynch.”

 

It's a terrible idea. Kavinsky is unpredictable at best, and vicious at worst. But Ronan is unstoppable, tonight, self-assured and grounded. And he’s intrigued.

 

He gets in.

 

The rumble of the engine tries its best to fill the empty spaces created by their silence. There isn’t even the bass-heavy rap Kavinsky favors to lend a hand. Ronan sprawls across the seat, head tilted back, but eyes still alert, studying how the lines of Kavinsky’s body are trembling like a guitar’s strings strung too tight.

 

Ronan speaks first. “Where are we going?”

 

“I don't know.” Each word is clipped and harsh, a challenge, brutally honest with an emphasis on the brutal in the only way Kavinsky knows how to be. His fingers are clenching the steering wheel like it's the only thing holding him together. Kavinsky's much too thin, looks like skin stretched tight over a twisted marionette. He’s hunched forward in his seat, and Ronan can see a few vertebrate poking out from above his tank top like shark fins. Smoky blue shadows gather in the hollows of his collarbone, making Kavinsky look like a dream thing himself, and, really, who was Ronan to say what was dream and what was reality these days?

 

Kavinsky pulled into the abandoned fairground and cut the engine, plunging them into complete silence, the kind that makes Ronan want to drum his fingers like thunder on the nearest hard surface. In this case, it's the dashboard. “Explain,” Ronan says, and now he remembers why this was a terrible idea, because Kavinsky can make him angry, furious, and he didn't want to be angry tonight.

 

Everything’s changing, whether he likes it or not, whether they find Glendower or not (blasphemy, Gansey would say, of course they will), everything is changing and there’s nothing Ronan can do to stop it.

 

Kavinsky stares out the window. “Where’ve you been, Lynch?”

 

It’s true Ronan hasn't been spending as much time on the streets. Most of his free time has been spent looking for Glendower with the others. “I've been busy. Why, you miss me?”

 

He snorts, and flashes Ronan a crooked smile. “In your dreams.”

 

Ronan would be a fool not to catch the implication.

 

Kavinsky’s strangely mellow tonight. It's almost frightening. When he reaches out, it's languid, slow enough that Ronan could push his hand away if he wanted, could open the car door and walk back to Monmouth, maybe get a couple of hours sleep before morning.

 

But he doesn't.

 

And now there are light fingers on Ronan's jaw, so delicate if he closes his eyes, he can't believe it's Kavinsky touching him like this.

 

He shuts them, and opens them again.

 

It's still Kavinsky, strangely vulnerable, almost shy as he cups Ronan’s face in both hands and leans in.

 

He tastes like cigarettes.

 

Kavinsky lets out a barely audible sigh, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. Ronan lets his eyes close as well. This is the Kavinsky he knows, aggressive and abrasive. He scrapes his teeth over Ronan’s bottom lip and unbuckles his seatbelt to close distance between them, the bony edges of his body digging into Ronan’s skin.

 

Ronan tangles his fingers in Kavinsky’s hair, fighting back. His undercut has grown out, and there’s just enough for Ronan to tug on, maneuvering his head into position.

 

It's always a battle with Kavinsky.

 

They break apart, sizing each other up as if they’re each waiting for the other to throw a punch. Kavinsky dips towards Ronan again instead, fingernails scrabbling for purchase in his skin, as if he wants it to hurt, wants to make sure Ronan never forgets. _Like he ever could._ Instinctively, Ronan’s arms tighten around him, holding him back and pulling him close at the same time. He’s on fire, he is the fire, consuming anything in his path, destroying to stay alive.

 

Kavinsky kisses him like he’s oxygen.

 

Volatile, dangerous Kavinsky. This is just another one of his drug-induced moods, Ronan knows.

 

Ronan Lynch is pretty like Lucifer. He has the bitter smile of a fallen angel who had once been God's favorite. Oh, how he has fallen from grace.  
  
If Ronan is a fallen angel, Kavinsky is a demon, tempting, inviting.

 

They’re the same, in more ways than one.

 

Ronan tugs at his hair, jerking Kavinsky’s head back, exposing his throat. Kavinsky smiles like broken glass. The vicious part of Ronan comes to life when Kavinsky’s around, reveling in its own cruelty like a big fuck you to the world: yes, I’m a monster—so fucking what. It’s a relief to be here with someone who knows, someone with the same secret. Gansey is the only other person who is aware of the darkness in Ronan and doesn’t care. Others are wary of his harsh words and short temper, but Gansey sees the light Ronan’s tried to smother, picking fights and isolating himself and shaving his head.

 

(He doesn’t want to think about Gansey now, not now as Kavinsky’s hand traces his tattoo with blunt fingernails under his t-shirt.)

 

Ronan pulls Kavinsky into his lap, a difficult endeavor—K’s small compared to Ronan, but he still has to climb over the center console, kicking CDs and empty bottles out of the way—but it’s worth it to have him flush against his body, knees digging into his sides. Ronan wants to touch, wants to run his hands down K’s back, to mark his collarbone, to stop thinking, but when Kavinsky’s hand strays to Ronan’s belt, Ronan pushes him off, because it’s not supposed to be like this, not in the front seat of a car that smells like alcohol and self-hatred, not hiding out in an empty field, and not with Kavinsky. “No,” he says, although he can still taste Kavinsky on his lips, still aches to reach out, to pick up where they left off. _Not like this._

 

“Why not?” Kavinsky whines, and really, it can only be called a whine.

 

Ronan thinks of old books and polo shirts. He thinks of spiky hair and a pink switchblade. He thinks of a Coca-Cola t-shirt and grease stains. He thinks of gelato and a pollen-dusted car in Cabeswater, frozen in time. He thinks of a quest, and really, it's simple.

 

When it comes to his friends or Kavinsky, he’ll pick his friends every time.

 

Kavinsky experimentally bites Ronan's neck, his head bumping into Ronan's jaw as pulls back to survey his handiwork. He sucks the mark with a single-minded focus Ronan's only ever seen on his face through his car window, as they wait for the light to turn green, feet hovering over their respective accelerators. 

 

Ronan pushes him away with a hand splayed on Kavinsky’s chest, and there’s no room for debate, even though his hand’s shaking.

 

“Tease,” grumbles Kavinsky, petulantly leaning back against the dashboard, still in Ronan’s lap. The bottom of his shirt’s rolled up and there’s a red mark on his own neck, courtesy of Ronan. He swivels to fix his hair in the rearview mirror, and it’s with calculated casualness that he says, “You should come to Fourth of July. Gonna be a kickass party.”

 

It’s more than a party invitation, of course it is. It’s never simple with Kavinsky.

 

Yet it’s the simplest thing of all, no friendship, no emotions, nothing to get in the way of bodies colliding.

 

“Maybe,” he says, reaching for the door handle. It’s too much, too fast, and he’s headed straight for a cliff.

 

“What, so that’s it? You gonna go running back to your precious Dick now?” Kavinsky spits.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“He’s got you on a tight leash, huh?” His words are designed to cut, to slide between Ronan’s ribs in a silver flash, even as he does nothing to resist Ronan sliding out from underneath him. “Maybe if you’re a good boy he’ll let you sleep at the foot of his bed.”

 

Ronan grabs Kavinsky’s shirt and yanks him out too as he flings himself out of the car, pushing Kavinsky up against the Mitsubishi until he has to stand on his tiptoes to avoid being choked by his shirt collar. The fire’s back, wanting to destroy. “Shut. Up.” Kavinsky’s smile is strangely triumphant for someone Ronan could snap in half if he wanted to.

 

He drops Kavinsky and walks away, chest heaving.

 

“Coward!” Kavinsky yells after him, but Ronan doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking as he hears the Mitsubishi tear away to who-knows-where, as the sky lightens, as the sidewalk begins to burn the bottoms of his feet. 

  
Ronan keeps walking until he can almost dismiss the unsettling encounter as a dream, and he’s found his way back to Monmouth.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've written for the Raven Cycle fandom, so feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
